


Grinchlock or How Sherlock Saved Christmas (After He Destroyed It)

by hannanotmontana



Category: How the Grinch Stole Christmas! - Dr. Seuss, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Grinchlock, Sherlock AU, a bit of rhyming, a bit of story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 7,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannanotmontana/pseuds/hannanotmontana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what happens if you mix my favourite TV show with my favourite Christmas story. There's one person in London who is not at all in Christmas mood. And then there's John Watson, who thinks that Christmas should be about more than presents, who sees the wonder in small things - and seeks the true meaning of Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

Every year around Christmas

An old man tells this story

About Christmas and the one being

that didn’t thrive in its glory.

 

The tale tells about a fella named John

Who, at night, barely stifling a yawn,

Walked the streets of London without any plan

And met a creature more monster than man…


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson, not for the first time in December, got a bad feeling when he looked around and saw decorated windows, fairy lights and snow men wearing top-hats and scarves against the cold.  
  
It wasn’t that he didn’t like winter, or Christmas time – no, in fact he loved it, more dearly than any other time of the year. He loved the snow, loved the feeling of cold wind biting his cheeks, loved dressing in three layers against the cold, loved the knitted jumpers and scarves and hats, and he loved the tea and Christmas cookies.  
  
However, he had the feeling that all those things didn’t matter to people anymore. _He_ might love them, but no one else seemed to. They complained about the cold, and spend their days running from store to store, shopping for Christmas presents. No one ever stopped anymore and admired the marvelous sight of winter-white London, of soft snow falling from the sky, of colourful lights casting bright spots everywhere.  
  
And, most importantly, Christmas used to be about friendship and love.

  
  
And with these dark thoughts slowly driving him mad

John thought of the things he long ago had

A mother, a father, a sister – not drunk –

And, deep in these thoughts, he nearly tripped on some junk.

 

  
The wound in his shoulder, thanks to the Taliban  
  
back from when he had invaded Afghanistan

 Started throbbing in pain and he bit back a cry

As he flailed his arms, searching for support nearby.

 

“Jesus-“ he caught himself in the last moment, and when the pain in his shoulder finally subsided, he stood against the fence he had gripped for a moment longer, eyes closed, calming his breath. Only then he straightened the grey coat he was wearing, tucked his red-and-white-striped scarf more tightly around himself and examined what exactly he had tripped over.  
  
It was a Whoman skull.

 

The brave little soldier looked up in surprise

(the skull was of average adult Whoman size) -

But reading the street name, John turned white as a sheet

When he realized he was at 221 Baker Street.


	3. Chapter 3

Apparently, his feet had carried him to the one part of London which represented his own dark thoughts best. Baker Street itself was not necessarily a bad place – at the two ends of the street, Christmas lights shone brightly, imprints of snow angels decorated a tiny piece of front lawn, and the muffled sound of someone practicing Christmas tunes on the flute came through the walls.

However, the closer you came to the middle of the street, towards number 221, with its three flats – one of them apparently empty, going by the sign next to the doorbell, one inhabited by someone called “M. Hudson” and the third – 221 B - … well…  


 

Every Who in London knew exactly who lived there,

His name never mentioned, only whispered with care.

His hair was said to be wild as a bird’s nest,

And that there was nothing beating inside his pale chest.

 

Heartless and cruel and utterly loathsome

His manners atrocious and totally gruesome.

No one knew exactly what was wrong – and why?

But then, no one had asked to even _get_ a reply!

 

Indecisive, John stood, staring up at the dark windows of 221B. Did its inhabitant really eat Whomans? Was that the reason for the skull?  
  
He bent down and picked it up, examining the part where it should have been attached to the rest of the body. There were no marks indicating a forceful removal. In fact, it looked rather clinical.  
  
Things only got stranger when John noticed that a pack of cigarettes was stuffed into the empty part where the brain had sat before.  
  
“Oh dear-“  
  
John startled and nearly dropped the skull again, when he heard the voice. It came from an old Who-Lady standing in the door of 221 Baker Street, looking at him with a mixture of friendliness and regret. “I’m so sorry, I hope you didn’t trip over this? I always tell Sherlock not to just throw his stuff out of the window, but… well, boys stay boys, I suppose. Would you mind taking it up to him? I’d go myself, but I have a bad hip, you know…” She gave him an apologetic smile.

 

  
  
And while John still pondered, with himself in debate

His feet moved by themselves - their decision was made.

The old lady looked relieved, smiling at him in glee

And asked

“What’s your name, dear – and would you care for some tea?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Really, he should just go. There was a reason for why everyone avoided this place. There was a reason for why naughty little Whos were threatened with… him.  
  
And yet… the old lady hat spoken with so much adoration of her – tenant? Even the word sounded strange. John had refused the offered tea and instead had opted to climb the first set of stairs, in a dimly lit hallway with old, yellowing wallpaper and dark wooden stairs.

But now that the dark door to 221B loomed in front of him, another set of stairs up, he had stopped in his tracks, full of doubts. The skull in his hands weighed a thousand pounds now and seemed to grin at him.

  
  
“You will be next” the skull said

\- or so John imagined –

When from 221B music started

Not frightening, but saddened.

 

The soft, mournful sounds of a violin filled the dark space in front of John, muffled by the door to the flat, but unmistakably coming from there. It made John’s heart pang in an unspeakable pain, a pain, though, he knew just too well.  
  
The sound was longing, spoke of cold and loneliness – everything John had experienced this Christmas time, and everything he dreaded. It sounded like the musician had never known joy before, like he had never seen a fully lit Christmas tree, never tasted the first snow on the tip of his tongue, never had skidded over a frozen pond.  
  
And the music was definitely coming from 221B.  
  
So, with the hope in his heart that maybe, just maybe, there lived someone who would understand, and who needed to be shown something to make the sadness disappear from the notes unfolding into the night, John grabbed the skull tighter and carefully climbed the stairs.

 

The bravest of Whos knocked at the door,

Steeling himself as if going to war,

And upon his knock the music stopped altogether

No sound could be heard, not even the drop of a feather.

 

‘Whether monster or man,’

John thought to himself,

‘he must be very lonely

  
  
I will not leave him

\- No matter if he’s mean -

Because this holiday’s holy.’

 

“Could you just open the door for a moment?” John called out when his knock remained unanswered, and when still no sound was heard from within the flat, he took a deep breath and tried the doorknob.  
  
The door swung open with a small ‘creak’ and before John could say another thing, a large black shadow raced towards him, the only thing visible besides the dark outlines were piercing silver eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

For all the Whos thought they knew about him

Their actual knowledge was more than just dim

They didn’t know what life was like for the monster

And the Who at the door ‘bout to find out - was a doctor.

 

Within seconds his life’s story was clear

While the Who simply stood there, frozen in fear.

Sherlock – the name of the monster, though no-one bothered to ask -

Was intrigued, which he hid under an indifferent mask.

(He also tried to be a little bit frightening,

And he grinned when he saw the Doctor-Who whitening.)

 

“What do you want?!” Sherlock hissed, aware that he was still mainly hidden in the shadows of the flat, while the stupid little Who stood on his doorstep, trying to look braver than he most likely was.  
  
He was tanned, from a long stay abroad (the war – no sun tan lines above the wrists), and yet he had crinkles around his eyes, indicating his friendliness. Plus, he was wrapped in a grey coat with fur around the hood and two drawstrings that ended in… plushy pom-poms, for God’s sake. Sherlock didn’t need the atrociously striped red-and-white-scarf to recognize yet another Whoman in full Christmas-mode.  
  
The Who was probably invalided – he didn’t look like he could hurt anyone and the only thing that spoke of his courage – or stupidity – was the fact that he was… well, standing there. On Sherlock’s doorstep.

 “I don’t like to repeat myself…” Sherlock let the sentence hang in the air, adding a bit of growl to his voice. The faster he scared the short Whoman away, the faster he’d have his peace pack. Because that’s what it was. Peace. Not solitude. Peace. Hateful, boring peace. No, wait – good peace. Whoman-free peace.

And then the Whoman spoke, and Sherlock was stunned.

“No need to be so mean. I only wanted to bring back your, uh, skull. And the lady from downstairs says to tell you not to throw your things on the street.”

The Whoman – he dared to reprimand him?!

“I’m John Watson, by the way,” he said and… extended his hand. For Sherlock to… shake.

 

For a moment or two, Sherlock was speechless

The man’s speech as sweet as the sweetest of peaches.

Not frightened or angry, and not even hurried

His behaviour left Sherlock honestly flurried.

 

And because that was absolutely no way Sherlock wanted to feel, he darted forward, snatched the skull from the surprised Whoman’s – _John’s_ – hands, and slammed the door in his face. He grated his teeth when he heard the somewhat lost ‘Merry Christmas… I guess…’

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

John slowly walked through the dark streets, back to the small flat he currently lived in from his army pension. Given the relatively late night during the week, the streets were almost silent, the snow dimming the sound of the ever-present vehicles on the streets, and most windows dark except for the fairy lights decorating them.  
  
But instead of feeling lonely, or sad, John, for the first time today and in a long time felt… good.   
  
True, he had been treated more than just rude, but… the silver eyes that had tried so hard to look intimidating had a certain childlike quality to them, as if they had seen a wonder -a Christmas miracle- and their edges were softened by blue and green, making them prettier than the brightest baubles and any other ornament.  
  
John knew evil when he saw it – and no matter what the stories told: whomever lived in 221B Baker Street was not evil.

 

He undressed and cuddled up when he got to his flat

Planning the next day as he crept into bed

John’s dreams, usually filled with blood, war and pain

Were now ‘bout those eyes, burnt into his brain.

 

When he got up the next morning, his mind was set. Knowing he would have a long day, he dressed warmly in jeans, a navy-blue jumper with a white shirt underneath and his warm, grey coat. Then, he was ready.

 

His first stop was once again 221 Baker Street

\- in the daylight the house looked actually neat –

where he rang the landladys’s doorbell

(he figured that, of all Whos, she knew her tenant most well)*

 

The windows of B were cold and dark

And when John heard no sound, he bit back a remark

\- of course Mrs. Hudson noticed, but remained silent

While she invited John in, who followed compliant.

 

“Is he, uh, always like this? Rude and mean and loud and then doesn't make a sound all day?” John asked after he was seated with tea and Christmas cookies opposite a still smiling Mrs. Hudson.  
  
“Oh, yes! But you are the first one to ask about him, to be honest.”  
  
“Yes, well – I just don’t think he should be holed up like this all the time. Maybe if he just came out more often people wouldn’t say… what they say about him,” John tried to voice his thoughts.  
  
“He’s just not  the sort of person who talks to people a lot,” the old lady said with a little sigh. “I’ve known him for a long time but he’s never even opened the door to someone other than me.”  
  
John didn’t tell her that he, well, _he_ had sort of opened the door by _himself_ and instead gave her a winning grin. “Maybe I’m just not people.”

 “It would be good for him to have someone like you around,” Mrs. Hudson agreed after a little while, giving John another adoring smile. “You should come back tomorrow, though – he’s in one of his moods today,” she added in a conspiratorial voice.   
  
What this mood was, John wasn’t sure – was there even a way to distinguish a _mood_ from his general behavior?! But he nevertheless nodded and left the flat, not without a sheet of paper with a name on it.  
  
He had another destination today and, pointedly ignoring the ‘thump’ that came from the ceiling when he wished Mrs. Hudson a Merry Christmas, he set out to the city again.

 

A destination in mind, John set out to the city

Ignoring the Whos who stared at him with pity

He limped and was damaged and maybe a bit mad

But determined to find the heart the monster hopefully had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do realize that there is no such thing as "most well" - but basically, I do what I want, I'm no Dr. Seuss and this is just for fun ;)  
> There's no deep plot, no elaborate characterisations - just me, a Grinch movie and a mad Sherlockian brain^^
> 
> Also, thanks for the kudos, I hope you enjoy this as much as I do when writing it :)  
> Hanna  
> (hanna-notmontana on tumblr)


	7. Chapter 7

John entered the Yard, looking for a DI

Because Mrs. Hudson said he used to come by.

He spent half an hour, asking around

But Greg Lestrade was nowhere to be found.

 

Finally, John sat down on some seats probably designated for delinquents or worse and sighed deeply.  
  
“Tough day, mate?” a guy next to him asked, and John nodded, taking in the other man’s tired eyes and slumped shoulders emphatically.   
  
“Better than yours, though, probably,” he replied.  
  
The other man gave him a tired half-grin. “Yeah. My team’s been getting on my nerves all night and I just need five minutes of peace. If I have to sign another piece of paper or take another look at a close-up of a bruise I’ll climb the walls.” He blushed a bit. “Sorry, didn’t mean to vent. And to a civilian, above all.  
  
John simply smiled back. “No worries – and besides-“ he gave a mock salute, “Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Your crime scene secrets are in good hands. Shouldn’t you be hiding somewhere less crowded, though? If you want peace, I mean? They’re probably going to spot you any minute.”

That earned him a chuckle. “Probably. But a… friend taught me to always hide in plain sight.” After a few seconds, he added fondly: “Mad bastard…”  
  
That made John grin. “Sounds like a very mad bastard – no offence.” Greg made the universal ‘doesn’t matter, non taken’ gesture, and John continued. “ So… you’re a detective then?”  
  
The man nodded. “Yeah, DI Lestrade. Greg.”

 

Upon hearing that name, John nearly fell off his chair

And stared at the man he’d been searching – sitting right there!

“I’ve been looking for you!” he told him joyful

“Mrs. Hudson sends me,” he then added hopeful.  
  
At first, Lestrade made a wary face,

But the mention of that Who helped replace

It with interest and maybe the tiniest bit worry

“what’s he done now?” he asked in flurry.

 

“He? So you know about him? The... monster?” John quickly asked.  
  
“He’s not a- he’s a Who. Like you and me. Well, maybe not like you and me, but- anyways, his name is Sherlock,” Greg told him.  
  
“Sherlock.” John tried the name that sounded so foreign on his tongue, and decided that it somehow matched the person it belonged to perfectly. It was strange, unique and… interesting.  
  
“How do you know him?” Now Greg was the one looking curious at him.  
  
“He, uh, sort of slammed his door in my face when I brought him a skull he’d thrown out of the window?” John tried, and watched how Greg started smiling, then grinning, and finally laughed out loud.  
  
“That does sound like him, yeah – but, he really opened the door for you? Impressive.”

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me,” John mumbled.


	8. Chapter 8

“He’s not entirely awful,” Lestrade finally said.   
  
“How long have you known him?” John asked curiously, eyes trained on the tired detective. He didn’t seem special, and yet he was apparently the only Who who knew more about Sherlock. John was more than just a bit curious how that was possible.  
  
“It’s… five years now, I think. You see-

 His childhood, too, is an enigma for me  
  
and his teens – I guess he has an uni degree?

In science or something we both would detest

These are the areas in which he is the best.

 

He doesn’t do well with, well, people in general

He’s smart alright, but completely mental

And yet it’s not true what they say about him-

He might act inept, but has never been grim.

  
Okay, maybe sometimes, a little bit,” Lestrade added when John raised an eyebrow. “But fact is – Sherlock is one of the best men I’ve ever known, and maybe, someday, if we’re all lucky, he’ll even be a good one.”  
  
John nodded thoughtful. Finally, he asked: “Is there anything he likes? Other than skulls, violin playing and slamming doors in people’s faces?”  
  
Lestrade snorted, before he drily replied: “Try a 7-%-solution.” Upon seeing John’s shocked face, he explained: “That’s how I met him. He was high, lying in the gutter. I brought him home, told him I was a DI and he… well, we made a deal: he gets to consult me, as long as he stays off the drugs.”  
  
“That is… okay. Wow.” John really didn’t know what to say. Finally he settled on: “I’ll try Christmas cookies then.”  
  
“Good luck,” Lestrade said seriously, and cocked his head. “You know, whoever you are, you might just be the right person for Sherlock.”  
  
John smiled a small smile. “I’m really no-one.”  
  
“I think that’s where you’re wrong…” the DI gave him one last judging look and then scribbled down something on a piece of paper. “Gimme a call and tell me how it was.”

 

And so once again John set out to the city

Chuckling when he pictured Sherlock as a kitty-

All teeth and claws and hissing and scratching

But empty inside –he and John were matching.


	9. Chapter 9

All the way back to Baker Street, John tried to find the right words.

 

Would he be gentle, would he be sweet?

Or would he be firm, stern – as hard as concrete?

To approach Sherlock seemed a difficult matter

With the potential to fail (like an egg beater in batter*!)

 

Beyond Sherlock’s knowledge was the meaning of Christmas

“But I don’t know, either,” thought John with a grimace,

“I always thought friendship and love were important

\- and Sherlock probably thinks that’s abhorrent.”

 

Now, John didn’t know Sherlock at all – had only learnt not to think of him as a fairy tale monster today – but he had the distinct feeling he was right. Sherlock didn’t seem cordial with anyone and although Greg spoke fondly of him, it didn’t necessarily mean Sherlock did the same. And that went for Mrs. Hudson, too.

In the afternoon light, however, Baker Street looked friendly, and John’s worries were dulled a bit. His finger hovered over Mrs. Hudson’s doorbell for a moment, before he took a deep breath and pressed the button above her name.  
  
Faintly, he could hear the sound in the upstairs flat. However, that remained the only sound to be heard.  
  
After ringing two more times and stepping back to watch the windows he by now knew belonged to 221B, he noticed a faint motion of the curtains and, deciding to go for it, called up: “I’m not going away, so you might as well open up!”

Which resulted in the astonishing answer of… silence.

But John remained unfazed, and, with determination, sat down on the small step in front of the door. He was dressed warmly (and after an hour, Mrs. Hudson supplied him with tea and sandwiches and a mat to keep his bum off the cold stone), so he had no problem remaining exactly there for at least until night fell.

Which he did.

 

For three or four hours John sat on the mat

He sat determined, he sat, sat, sat

For three or four hours no one left or arrived

\- though John did not know what Sherlock contrived.

 

Naturally, there was more than one exit

For when Sherlock got visitors he hadn’t expected

And this exit he used and he hid in the shadow

Instead of just watching the Who from the window.

 

At around eight in the evening, John finally left, and he was still in a good mood – if he was one thing, he was persistent, and although his leg hurt a bit from sitting in the cold all day, he was determined to come again tomorrow. At one point, Sherlock would have to open up. And John could wait.

He didn’t notice the pair of eyes that followed him from a small alleyway next to 221 Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trust me, if you want batter/dough all over your kitchen walls – GO FOR IT.  
> (And I know there's a difference between batter and dough but dough unfortunately does not rhyme with matter ;D)


	10. Chapter 10

He peeked through the curtains, eyebrows arched high

And watched the Who on the doorstep, wondering ‘why?’

 _Why_ did he bother to come – and _why_ did he stay

Every day, for a week now, not going away!

 

Every day Sherlock’s puzzler was deliciously busy

And the thoughts whirling ‘round made him often quite dizzy

The little Who-Doctor was stubborn! Annoyingly so!

And yet he was nothing Sherlock’s brain could let go.

 

He paced the dim-lit flat, up and down, down and up; overly aware of the Who sitting below him on the street. It was as if he could feel his presence – it was invading wherever he went, whatever he did. Even if he sneaked out of the flat, he felt a pull in the back of his mind, conscious of the ex-Army doctor waiting in front of 221B.

Sherlock picked up his violin, sat it down again. Peered into his mug - empty. Stalked into the kitchen, back to the sofa and then into the bathroom. Restless.

Catching a glance of himself in the mirror, he wondered if he could maybe scare John away. His hair was a tangled mess of curls, resembling more of a bird’s nest than an actual hair-do. His face was pale as always and if he narrowed his eyes, he could make them glint dangerously.

If he put on a few appropriate clothes, he could scare John Watson.

Except no. That wouldn’t work.

Yesterday, on the fourth day of the siege of Baker Street, he’d put out his skull early in the morning, with a piece of paper reading “to keep you company” attached to it.

He had meant it as a threat, as in “if you don’t leave, you’ll end the same way”, but John had simply chuckled – he had dared to chuckle! – and, placing the skull next to himself on the doorstep, had spent another day there.

Of course Sherlock had not planned to actually kill John – he’d get in so much trouble with Lestrade and that was not worth the effort.

Today, on the fifth day, he decided on something new.

 

If he wanted, Sherlock could play like a god

But today the music was heavily flawed

He scratched away on his violin with gusto

Not nice and proper, but –

 

“Stop making the violin sound like a tortured animal!” John called up from the street and that put off Sherlock enough to stop mid-note.

“How about you play one nice song, and I’ll leave for today if you won’t let me in afterwards?”

John must have looked mental, yelling at closed windows, knowing only Sherlock would understand what was going on, but he nevertheless did and that was yet another thing that threw Sherlock off balance. Why would he bother?

He contemplated John’s offer for a moment, until he came to a decision.

 

Soon enough, sweet sounds filled the air

A great improvement to the aforementioned blare.

“This isn’t for John,” to himself Sherlock thought

- _and yet he played_ (had John found a soft spot?!)


	11. Chapter 11

On the seventh day, Sherlock gave in. True to his word, John had left on the fifth day, after Sherlock had finished playing something nice, but when he returned on the sixth day and Sherlock thought he’d get rid of him by playing something nice _again_ , that had not really worked at all.  
  
John hadn’t moved an inch, and Sherlock had wasted perfectly good time on playing nice things when he could’ve done experiments or could've sulked in his chair. This was why he finally decided to talk to – or rather _at_ – John and get rid of him once and for all (of course only after he’d dissected every single thought in the Who’s brain to understand WHY he did what he did.)

 

Sherlock put on his second best suit,

Grabbed two nicotine patches because he was in the mood,

Then skipped down the stairs, belatedly realizing

It would alert John of his presence, which was not to his liking.

 

However, when he threw open the door, all he saw of John was the Who’s back disappearing into a long black car.

 

Hissing and snaring he watched the car leave,

Already sulky because he’d been so naïve

\- you see, Sherlock wasn’t an only child,

His brother, Mycroft, too was around, driving him wild.

 

He fired of texts, as quick as lightening

“Bring him back!”, “He’s mine!”, his fists were tightening

Around the phone, when the reply of “Patience!” came

Anger shaking his lanky frame.

 

And yet there was nothing he could do, so he spent the day driving Mrs. Hudson almost mad with his pacing, torture of the violin and two minor explosions. He had no idea how much time had passed when he heard a rapid knock on his door – unusual for Mrs. Hudson, but most likely because she was angry – before she opened the door and-

-pushed a extremely uncomfortable John Watson in.

“Sherlock, you have been insufferable all day! I expect you to sort this out now-“ she stopped herself mid-sentence when her eyes fell on the wall to her right. “Oh what have you done to my walls?!,” she exclaimed, eyeing the various acid stains warily. With one half-hearted glare, she then left, leaving behind an extremely irritated Sherlock and an uncertain John Watson.

 

“You! What business do you have with my brother?!”

Sherlock inquired, eyeing the other.

“Your brother?” John raised an eyebrow in apparent surprise,

“he said he’s your arch enemy –well, nice disguise.”

 

“Ignore him!

He’s a git, interfering and pompous,

And his backside is appallingly enormous,”

Sherlock replied, his tone quite imperious

Completely forgetting to act mysterious.

 

It took him 3.4 seconds to realize his mistake, and another 4 seconds to read all the conflicting emotions on John’s face, who clearly hadn’t counted on finding Sherlock in a talkative, even human – hating on his brother! – mood.

  
Ah, Mycroft really did bring out the worst in him.


	12. Chapter 12

With still two weeks until Christmas to go, John befriended Sherlock. Well, at least he thought he did. His persistence paid off, and he spent every day at Baker Street.

 

After the initial shock of turning out human

\- And Sherlock realizing John was not stupid -

The two of them formed a strange new friendship

Based on tea, insults, the violin and spiritual kinship.

 

Sherlock was by no means the monster the Whos depicted him as. He was insufferable most of the time, completely ignorant towards any custom or tradition regarding Christmas, and he barely tolerated John around and yet – after overcoming the initial hatred towards John (which had never been real in the first place because John was simply too interesting!) he allowed John to look behind the façade.

 Well, at least the outer façade. Sherlock was a genius, there was no doubt about that. His knowledge in the science area was incredible, as was his understanding of crimes. He saw things no-one else noticed and now John understood why Lestrade worked with the sleuth.

 Contrary to popular beliefs, Sherlock also left Baker Street regularly – to hunt criminals, to catch murderers and thieves. Not because of his concern for the Whos of London, though – because of the thrill of the game, as he put it.  
  
And John…

 

John readily followed wherever he went

And soon he moved into Baker Street to help pay the rent.

On their first night out, John shot a cabbie;

Two nights later Sherlock rescued him from Westminster Abbey.

 

Not ever before John had felt so alive

The grumpy detective had changed his life.

The only thing still missing was the feeling of Christmas

Cookies, warmth, friendship and mistletoe-kisses.

 

But alas, Sherlock was not interested in that at all and no matter how much John gushed about his favourite time of the year, it was to no avail.

 “You don’t really like it,” Sherlock finally deduced as they were sitting in front of the fire with two mugs of tea. “It’s something that’s been bothering you ever since this dreadful time of the year started.”

 It was not per se an invitation to talk, but John had learned to take opportunities when they presented themselves. “I do like it! I've always loved Christmas... I’m just not sure this-“ he made a vague gesture towards the window and the outside world, “is what it’s all about. Everyone is so busy buying things and hustling about that it feels… shallow.” He made a grimace, not expecting an answer from Sherlock at all.

 However, the not-so-monstrous detective surprised him. “Then why are you so intent on celebrating it and, even more important, why are you so intent on me showing interest in it?”

 

“Because it could be more,

more than presents and chocolate fondue

I know- I want to prove there’s more to it-

like I proved with you!”

 

John’s crooked smile met Sherlock’s stern face

But in Sherlock’s eyes was amusement (at least a trace!)

 

“You are hopeless, your ideals obsolete,

Now pass me more tea, that would be neat.”

John sighed but followed Sherlock’s request

Still determined on his ‘festive-spirit’-quest.


	13. Chapter 13

With only two days until Christmas Day, the invitation to the annual Christmas party at the Yard came with the mail. John, with a quite heroic dive across the sitting room, rescued the card from fluttering into the flames, where Sherlock saw it fit, and, still lying on his stomach, read it.

It was a standard, computer-generated text with a time and date printed on it, complete with cheerfully dancing Christmas-trees in a conga line, but Lestrade had added something in his own handwriting.

“ ‘You really should come this year’- does this mean you’ve been invited before? Why didn’t you go?” John inquired from the ground, slowly sitting up, while Sherlock glared down in annoyance.

 

“I’ve been invited for the past three years

And I don’t see the point in parties and cheers.

If you want to go, feel free to do so

It’s right up your street – but I’m not going to go!”

 

Of course, a lengthy argument followed this statement almost immediately. Sherlock kept either ignoring or taking apart everything John said in order to convince him to go. Two hours before the party, they still had not come to a solution (well, Sherlock had, in deciding not to go, but John was not having any of that without a valid reason and “I don’t care about Christmas!” was not one!) and a sulking Sherlock disappeared into his room.

 

“I don’t want to go- it’s dreadful, and boring

And besides – outside the rain is pouring!

If I went – which I won’t- but if I did, if I went

There would be one hundred ways of my time _better_ spent!

 

Oh, and what exactly does one wear to this party?

Surely not Christmas jumpers or something equally artsy?

I don’t have the time, anyways – there’s an experiment waiting

I could dissect a pig and analyze blood – not spend my time doing what I’m hating!”

 

But over these thoughts whirling around in his head

A plan formed in his mind – and on his face, a grinchy grin spread.

“If I go once,” Sherlock thought to himself

“I could end this farce – yes, I'll do it myself!”

 

And so he called out for John, who came quickly. Trusting and loyal as he was, he walked into Sherlock’s bedroom and Sherlock, without much hesitation, plunged a syringe into his neck. Courtesy of Sherlock's chemical talent, John went down without so much as a grunt, not even realizing what had just happened.

When he regained consciousness, he found himself tied to his chair in the sitting room with Sherlock gone. John had a bad feeling instantly and it didn’t take him long to realize Sherlock was following some idiotic plan he had decided on.

Not even the tea with a straw, or the television that was put on a somewhat interesting channel was helping in calming John’s nerves. If anything, it worked him up more because if Sherlock actually bothered to try and make him comfortable, his plan was most likely going to be extremely awful.

Sherlock was doing something he’d regret, and he couldn’t get out of this damn chair – John might have been in Afghanistan, but Sherlock knew how to tie a knot.

 So all John could do was sit and let disaster take its course, wondering for the first time since he met the so-called monster if his nickname was actually deserved.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock sneaked over rooftops – a slow way of travelling -

To the Yard and the room where the party was happening.

He was alone still and with his mind set firmly

He moved about the room, working sternly.

 

The first thing to go were the decorations

Sherlock worked quickly and without perturbation.

Soon the garlands hung out of the bin

And he picked his next target doing a swift little spin.

 

“The food needs to go, but it’s too much to be binned

\- I’ll take it with me for now,” he said and grinned.

So the food was stuffed in bags along with the presents

And by now Sherlock’s grin was most unpleasant.

 

“That’ll teach them to bother me year after year,”

He mumbled, eyeing the damage he’d done – it was frankly severe.

“I don’t care about holidays, I don’t care about cheer,

I just need my work – have I been unclear?”

 

And with these final words, he left the building

Searching for the feeling that it had been fulfilling-

And true, no happy sound was to be heard

But _he_ had a bad feeling – which was simply absurd!

When he came home after wandering the London streets for hours, trying to shake off the nagging feeling in his chest (despite knowing that he’d effectively ruined the party and would not be bothered again, which was all he ever wanted!), John was nowhere to be found, and all that reminded Sherlock of the fact that he hadn’t imagined the whole four weeks of company was a single piece of paper on the table and a few of John’s less valuable possessions in the room upstairs.

 

_“Sherlock – I can’t believe you! I tried so hard- I hoped you wouldn’t… be what everyone said you were but I guess I was wrong. Your brother sent someone to untie me and I’ll be moving out as soon as possible._   
_I’m still not sure about the whole meaning of Christmas, and maybe there’s not more to it than presents and stuff, but I think that I at least understand it better than you do (which is probably a first)._   
_Anyway, I still hope you’ll be content with your life and I’m sorry it had to end like that._   
_Happy Christmas,_   
_John”_

 

For quite a while, Sherlock stayed quiet

On his inside, though, was an emotional riot

Angry at himself for not being content,

He tried to be angry at John – whom he did resent!

 

(Except he did not, and the flat was strangely cold and empty and the nagging feeling in his chest did not go away.)


	15. Chapter 15

At this part of the story, the old man will sit up

He’ll make tea and only then sit again, with a mug

For a moment, his face falls, and you’ll be able to see

The young man he once was, the man he once used to be.

 

“What about John? And Sherlock? And Christmas?”

 “Did John really leave?

You’ll ask, while he chews on a biscuit

And his eyes twinkle and he’ll tell you “Believe!”

 

Another voice can be heard,

From a dark corner in the room,

Deep, and calm and full of gloom.

 

“The story is not quite over yet

For Sherlock felt something

He- up ‘til then – never had.”

 

“Yes, thanks, but this is my story to tell,”

The old man will interject and you’ll laugh, bright like a bell.

They’ll bicker a bit, and then both say they’re sorry

But finally, the old man will tell the rest of the story…

 


	16. Chapter 16

On Christmas Eve eve, all was wrong  
Sherlock didn’t know why John’s disappointment stung  
And yet it did and with hot heavy claws  
It tore at him until he let out a roar.

At the other end of London, John, too, sat alone  
Less shouty, but frustrated because he should have known-  
He had tried so hard to believe in the monster  
But he couldn’t fix him, although he was a doctor.

John, at his sister’s, went to bed with a heavy heart that night, with his sister being out, still late-night-shopping for last minute presents. It was no use talking to her anyways, because she was always stressed on the days before Christmas.

Sherlock, too, went to bed in a lonely flat and while that had never bothered him before, no, while he had even cherished his loneliness, now he was just overly aware of John’s absence.  
Angry with himself for his apparent dependency on John and generally angry with the Christmassy world as it was, he fell asleep.

All through the night, both men were restless  
And when they awoke, they did so breathless.  
John had a nightmare, the war still lingering  
While Sherlock turned out to be incapable of thinking.

The day passed with Sherlock in a horrible mood so that even Mrs. Hudson, who tried to find out what was going on, finally fled the flat early to visit her sister and Lestrade, who of course had rightfully suspected Sherlock in the destruction of the party, didn’t dare to even enter the flat from the hateful way Sherlock looked at him.

John wandered the streets of London, strangely empty – a lot of people had left the city to visit family – and yet overcrowded at the same time since the remaining Londoners seemed to have collectively decided on taking a stroll, too.

Amongst the hundreds of people, John felt alone.

Finally, Christmas Eve had fully arrived, the streets emptied, families gathered around the tree, laughter could be heard from every other house – and John was still walking, aimlessly, under the clear night sky.  
However, not all households were peaceful.

Because in 221B Baker Street, Sherlock’s eyes flew open where he lay on the sofa and his right hand shot towards his chest, clutching it. His heart was doing something funny; a strange, fast beating, and the pain he felt nagging in his stomach seemed to come from there - every time he thought of John. He knew he was perfectly healthy, he knew there was no sickness with symptoms induced by thinking of a person.

So there was only one valid explanation.

“I’m feeling. I’m feeling! I’m feeling… guilty!”

And so with this miracle on cold Christmas Eve  
Sherlock didn’t wait long – he knew where to be.  
He knew where to be and just what to do  
To make John’s hopes and dreams come true.


	17. Chapter 17

It was almost midnight, when John heard the music.

He had been walking aimlessly, still, and had not decided whether to return to his sister’s or not, when the soft notes reached his ears.

There was only one person in London who could play the violin like that – and who was mad enough to do so in the middle of the night, as a strange way of an apology. Because that’s what it was, really.

 

The music was incredibly lonely and sweet

Begging for forgiveness, telling of defeat

And it flew over the rooftops and buildings of London,

While John listened until he felt a bit drunken.

 

It took him only minutes to locate the origin of the music and when he did, he watched the lonely figure on the roof of St. Barth’s for another moment, before he made his way up there.

When he pushed open the door, the music intensified and the tune slowly changed into something John recognized as ‘Silent Night’, while Sherlock turned and his eyes, mercury cutting through the night, found John’s; all the while the beautiful music sounded over London.

John knew what Sherlock couldn’t quite put into words and finally, finally he was sure what Christmas was about – friendship and love, yes, but also forgiveness and joy.

Christmas was the time when long lost friends and lovers re-united, when families came together once more, when there was no room for hate and sorrow and pain.

He smiled at Sherlock.

 

When the song ended, Sherlock took a deep breath

Preparing – how it looked like – for a battle to death

And John snorted, because he knew those antics

While Sherlock’s blooming smile quickly vanished.

 

He complained:

“John, be serious, these are desperate times!

For some reason we appear to be speaking in rhymes!

Also, I discovered a feeling which is quite unsettling

So say you forgive me – this is all most upsetting!”

 

“Unsettling, huh?” John teased, but when Sherlock looked like he thought about stabbing him to death with his bow, he smiled in a way he hoped was calming and added: “We’re fine. Really. And… this was very nice. Really very nice. Quite brilliant.”

“Of course,” Sherlock huffed, but his usual self-assuredness was missing.

“Of course,” echoed John with a grin. “Only one thing, though – you’ll have to phone Lestrade. Say you’re sorry. And say it like you mean it.” He kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock. “You can do it now, he’s still up – they’re having another, small gathering tonight.”

 

“No presents? No bags? No tree and no food?

And still Lestrade had gotten into the mood?”

Destroyer Of Christmas – that was Sherlock's new name

But… Christmas had come – it had come just the same!

 

And on the roof of St. Barth’s, Sherlock, too, understood

What everyone thought he never would:

Christmas would always come, and he couldn’t destroy

What people like John treasured: love, peace and joy.

 

Within seconds, he had decided on another plan and holding his violin and bow in one hand and dragging John along by his sleeve with the other, he dashed through London.

The food he had snatched went to the people on his homeless network, as did the presents. He had binned most of the decorations, but the Christmas tree he’d taken was mostly intact and, under John’s awestruck watch, with the Who-Doctors eyes beaming, they took a taxi and drove to Lestrade’s flat, where the previously cancelled Yard-party had been relocated to.

 With just a little bit of hesitation, they were invited in and for the first time ever, Sherlock spend Christmas Eve – or, at that point, early morning of Christmas Day – with people; and more importantly: for the first time, he spent it with a person he truly cared about.

And John – John had the happiest Christmas he could have wished for.


	18. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates today, so go and check the previous chapter first if you haven't done that yet.

The old man has now finished his tale

And he sits back, glancing at the other male.

 

He’ll say:

“Now, children, this was the story of

‘How Sherlock saved Christmas’-”

 

And the other man will interrupt:

“- of course after he destroyed it,”

He’ll add, a bit vicious.

 

“Oh, shut up, you git

You have to admit

That yo- Sherlock messed up quite a bit.”

 

The other man will sulk for while

And the storyteller will give you a smile.

“It’s time to go now, go and sleep

And this story is all yours to keep.

Never forget what Christmas is about

And you’ll be happy, day in and day out.”

 

You leave, then, ready to sleep and dream

And the two men by the fire remain -  a team.

Briefly you wonder if the story was true

When mercury eyes blink, deducing you!

 

You hurry away then, not as brave as before

But you simply know that the two men… know more.

 However, these are stories for another long night

And you will be told… when the time is right.

 

  
And now there’s only one more thing for you to hear:

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I said everything I wanted to, so I'll keep this short and say  
> 'Thank you' for sticking around, leaving comments and kudos and being lovely!  
> I hope you have a nice time, whether you're celebrating Christmas or not!  
> Love,  
> Hanna  
> (hanna-notmontana on tumblr)


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